


Run

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: A companion piece to Locked Up.Will you stay with me my love?'Cause I don't want to be alone
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Run

**Author's Note:**

> Meant as a follow-up for Locked Up which was in the 'Zine. 
> 
> Run is by Daughter.

_While I powder my nose_

_He will powder his gums_

_And if I try to get close_

_He is already gone_

_Don’t know where he’s going_

_Don’t know where he’s been_

_But he is restless at night_

_‘Cause he has horrible dreams_

Beer hadn’t helped. Whiskey hadn’t dulled the pain. Ice hadn’t even touched it. Nothing could calm it. Music couldn’t even soothe his raging soul that was burning out of control as the days grew longer. 

Open eyes, he saw Michael. 

Closed eyes, same thing. 

He didn’t want it. He wanted to cast it out, but there were only a few ways he knew how to accomplish that task, and each one left him either dead or basically lobotomized and for the life of him, he couldn’t decide which was a better way to go. Weren’t they the same result, in the end? Wouldn’t he stop being tortured by memories of Michael in the end?

The only remaining option was one he didn’t dare entertain as the object of both his desire and misery entered his line of vision. 

“Hey, why the hell are you still in bed, you lazy fuck?” Clothes were tossed over towards the bed. “We’ve got shit to do, you know.”

He rolled over and flung the clothes on the floor, grumbling. Lester had any number of other people who could do such a bullshit job, but of course, he and Michael were always paired on goddamn purpose to such a point that he used to find it cute, but lately, he was starting to think that Michael did the shit intentionally just to badger the ever-loving fuck out of him, so it was annoying as hell. 

His mind was a crazy mess of contradictions. He wanted the gorgeous stocky fuckwad standing beside his bed to be near him because to be _without_ him was the epitome of torture, but it was the same thing just to be _near_ him.

He bit his thumb and contemplated his options. Would Lester be pissed at him if he backed out? Made up some shit about bowel trouble? The egghead understood that kind of health-related problem anyway. 

Could he tell Lester the truth? Lester was smarter about these kinds of things than he seemed, even for someone barely out of his teens. His ability to pick up on some social cues could be awkward as fuck, but he was a sharp motherfucker about others, so this felt like something Les might be willing to understand if he could just make the words come out right without any of his added sarcasm and unnecessary bite. 

But that’s all he felt full to the brim with. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want to be around Michael but didn’t want him to go away. Jesus Christ, he was becoming the girl Mother had always wanted. 

He watched as Michael moved to pick his clothes without a word, and the offending material fell back onto him into a heap. “C’mon, I _need_ you.”

He pulled the comforter over his head as if it were some added layer of protection from those ice-blue eyes that burrowed coldly into his soul. He shook his head miserably despite Michael’s inability to see it. “You don’t need me. Lester’s got plenty of other guys--”

The cover was yanked from him, wiping away his last barrier of protection, and he made a weak attempt to paw at it, but Michael had already grabbed it from the bed and pitched it aside. 

He felt so utterly naked and raw, like a newborn calf under scrutiny for the chopping block. 

Michael settled down gently next to him, taking his hands in his and rubbed the inside of his wrists and palms in circular soothing motions. “I _do_ need you. There’s no one else I want to do this with, OK? There’s no one else I trust like I trust you.” 

Those perfect hands that had handled many leathery pigskins and cold steel in their short time gradually moved up his arms towards his shoulders, resting there so gently, and he rolled his head towards the right side, trying to capture any warmth and kindness in them that could be spared. “You’re just saying that because it would be too much of a pain in the ass for Lester to find someone else right now, and you know it,” he muttered into the skin that smelled so painstakingly delicious near him. 

There was a titter of laughter from behind him before the arms guided him closer to the broad chest to which they belonged. “OK, that’s probably true too, but I _do_ want you with me, so get over yourself and c’mon.”

Trevor relented and dressed hurriedly. It was just an argument they’d have another day, all too soon. They’d grown into something for which a label couldn’t readily be attached: more than best friends, not really brothers anymore, not exactly boyfriends -- because he could never see Michael using that term, much less himself -- and lovers was too sophisticated of a term. Fuckbuds seemed as close to anything they could call themselves, but that seemed so detached from the feelings he had that he often found himself wishing he could do shit for Lester by himself, but unfortunately, the opportunities didn’t pop up as often these days as they used to. There was just more use for him as another gun and a pair of eyes with his training than there was for him flying precious cargo. 

And it fucking sucked. Which meant he had to face his fears and issues head-on every fucking day. Dwell on what to do about the situation. Did Mikey fucking love him or was he just a means to an end, like some f-fucking whore? Like his g-g-goddamn mother? Did he use him like everyone else did?

He’d rather face it under the covers back at the motel, but no, _thank you_ , _Lester_ , he was currently facing it barreling down Highway 52 doing 70mph during what Mother Philips had always called the witching hour, where nothing good ever takes place as he was constantly reminded as a child as she was on her way out the door to go do _nothing good_. 

The darker the skyline grew, the darker his mood grew, and the more he needed to break up the monotony, so when they reached Minot, he was desperate for any kind of interaction that involved something outside of Michael drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and humming along to Peter fucking Gabriel or Phil Collins or some other missing band member of Genesis. 

When they pulled up alongside a bar called Ranger’s Lounge on the main drag at a traffic light, he’d had enough and threw open the door without announcing his departure. He just knew he needed something in his system, and even in this sleazy cowboy shithole, there was bound to be something fun besides booze to tickle his fancy so he could at least forget how fucking miserable this car ride was going to be for the next several hours more. 

He idly recognized his name being shouted angrily, but he didn’t care as he nodded himself past what served as the bouncer and made his way over to the farthest end of the bar counter, waiting to be served. 

Michael was as predictable as morning wood anyway and would be next to him throwing back a few beers in a couple of minutes.

And right on time, his dark-haired buzzcut conundrum plopped down on a stool next to him with a dramatic huff and began to grouch. “What the fuck, T. If you were thirsty, you could’ve just said so, fucking prick.”

The bartender made his way over to them and took their orders, bringing back their beers in silence. The whole place had a nice blanket of eerie quietness to it, the kind you only see in the dead of winter’s night when most people are smart enough to not have any place they need to go besides a bed. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d stop, OK.”

Michael looked as if he’d been ready to say something back but wasn’t quite ready for the answer he’d received, so instead, he stopped suddenly and sat contemplating for a few seconds before just finally shutting his mouth. He took a hearty gulp of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sheepishly mumbled, “I would’ve stopped if you’d said something.”

Trevor looked down and fiddled with the thick cardboard coaster that was slowly disintegrating as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, but he was also feeling a tad bit silly after the fact. “Oh, well. Shit.”

“Yep.”

And the peacefulness that had previously seemed so nice was now starting to fill him with too many thoughts and voices. What was Michael thinking? That he was some sort of deranged idiot, after all? That he was regretting ever having run upon his plane that day? Was Michael thinking about how nice his ass felt or how good his cock tasted? Was he thinking about bed right now? No, no… that couldn’t be right or he wouldn’t have dragged him out of the very damn thing if he’d wanted some, right? 

Was he overthinking shit too?

The walls felt like they were closing in on him, and he couldn’t breathe, so he threw some money down and jumped up. This didn’t go unnoticed by Michael who threw down something of his own and followed soon after him. He braced himself against a lamppost outside, waiting for the sour beer to come back up, but all that came was two arms around him. 

“What happened in there?” Lips nuzzled so near yet too far from his ear for his liking. 

“I...I needed to…,” he tried to explain the fear that had gripped his heart but looked into Michael’s curious eyes and found himself feeling every bit the boy he’d been and not the man he was, and his head hung aimlessly; the words were now dead on his tongue. 

Michael hugged him tighter. “It’s OK. It happens to me too.”

And he knew that was supposed to make him feel better, but it was too much like pity, and all it did was make him more ashamed of himself for being unable to keep his goddamn cool, so he gritted his teeth and begged, “When the fuck can we get a room? I need a bed.”

Michael glanced at him skeptically, somewhat frustrated. “For fuck’s sake, you just _had_ sleep, you don’t need--”

“I wasn’t asking to sleep, Mikey,” he answered quietly.

The pangs of hunger filled him as Michael scoured for a cheap out-of-the-way motel. He wasn’t just some desperate whore like dear old Mom, starving for dick. He was starving for affection, and Michael was his closest means of getting it, although he wasn’t always sure how his friend felt about him in return. Sometimes they seemed to be on the same page, and others, they were like two ships passing in the night with Michael more interested in some other piece of tail. 

He wanted the affection, but guys like him had to settle for anything they could get, didn’t they?

_So we lay in the dark,_

_We’ve got nothing to say_

_Just the beating of hearts,_

_Like two drums in the grey_

_I don’t know what we’re doing_

_I don’t know what we’ve done_

_But the fire is coming_

_So I think we should run_

He laid back on the bed in the darkness, smiling fondly as he listened to Michael in the shower, always with some borderline insane need to smell good before actually doing anything as if he were afraid of a bit of dick sweat. He’d never admit it aloud, but it was downright fucking adorable the lengths Mikey went through to impress people, and he found it touching that he was thought of in the same class as “people to impress” that he should need to cleanse himself for probably the third time that day. 

His hand trailed down, stroking his belly, and slowly kindled the fire in the pit of his groin. He gave himself a little squeeze and took in a sharp breath. In his mind’s eye, he could picture Mikey’s hot mouth hovering over him, engulfing him, setting him ablaze, and then he switched the scene to him plowing his sweet plump ass from behind, listening to him moan and beg for more, and Jesus, it was doing things to him, Michael--

“Yeah?”

The object of his affection came out of the bathroom, toweling himself off but stopped sharply when he noticed what was going on. Ah fuck, he must’ve said his goddamn name. 

And it was awkward again. Did he only want to fuck around? Did he love him? What did he _want_? 

Michael threw the towel on a chair, but Trevor very much realized that he was still naked as he sat on the bed too. A hand made its way to his and clasped them both together, and they stayed like that for a while until the silence became maddening for him, and he cried out, “Jesus Christ, Mikey! Make a move, _please_!”

A mouth hesitated over him and then trembling lips covered his, and he felt terrible like he was forcing his best friend to do this shit just so to feel something -- anything -- at all. 

And that’s when the beer wanted to launch itself from him. 

He pushed Michael off of him quickly and threw himself over the bedside, hacking out everything he could just to stop the stew of emotions in his gut. 

A warm hand was at his back, rubbing it. “Are you OK?”

_Will you stay with me my love_

_For another day?_

_‘Cause I don’t want to be alone,_

_When I’m in this state_

His voice cracked painfully, “I can’t.” He leaned against the headframe, shaking. “I can’t...not if you don’t love me.” He stared Michael in the eyes, trying to gauge his friend in the darkness, but without a light to guide him, his ears could be filled with any pretty half-truths and lies.

Michael pulled near again, his breath close enough for Trevor to smell the sweetness of his toothpaste, and he could feel him shivering again. “You don’t understand, you dumb fuck. I told you earlier that it happens to me too. The feelings. The fear.”

Michael Townley, afraid? “Right,” he huffed in disbelief. Pure fantastical bullshit. There was no fucking way. 

Trembling lips touched him again, kissed softly, almost innocently, and Michael pulled away. “I _do_ love you, but it’s all new to me, and I’m not going to act like I’m not afraid.” He kissed Trevor again, easier this time. “We’ve done shit in the heat of the moment or fucked up off our asses so far. It’s scarier this way, OK?” He looked down. “I don’t exactly have an accepting family or church, but they don’t exactly accept anything I do. It’s just...I have to actually think about shit, and that’s tougher, so you’re going to have to give me time. I know what it feels like to want to run though.”

The rest of everything had made it through, but it had been filed away for later because the only thing that had been Trevor’s entire focus was “ _I do love you_ ” as soon as those words were uttered from the most precious lips he desired to kiss, and his hands made their way towards Michael’s head, bringing him in to taste him again. 

“Just don’t leave me,” he said between kisses peppered alongside Michael’s neck. “I couldn’t...I don’t know--”

Michael stopped his frantic worshiping and held him. “I know, OK? I know. It’s OK. If you feel you need to run, we’ll run together.”

He relaxed and listened to the solid beating of Michael’s heart, letting it become his tantric rhythm to which his body pulsed. He held his beautiful Romanesque face in his hands. “I will wait on you for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes. Just always together, OK?” Michael nodded, and then Trevor sighed into his open mouth before they joined: tongues connecting, bodies connecting, running to a beat as old as time itself in the span that was the witching hour, where no one is ever up to any good.


End file.
